FW 1944: Let's Face the Music
by Wolseley37
Summary: When a USO Camp Show comes to Hawthorne Cross Farm, now a USAAF airbase, Foyle and Sam are in for a treat, and discover more about each other, set to the tune of some favourite songs.
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer:** _Foyle's War_ was created by Anthony Horowitz, and the characters of Foyle and Samantha jointly created by Mr. Horowitz, Mr. Michael Kitchen and Ms. Honeysuckle Weeks. No infringement is intended.

 **A/N:** A subtitle for this story could very well be, 'How I Spent My Summer Vacation,' and enjoyed every minute of it.

* * *

Foyle's War: Let's Face the Music

A story for 'dancesabove' / 'ayresorchids'

By 'Wolseley37'

August 2015

 **Setting:** Hastings; Hawthorne Cross Farm, now a US Army Air Forces base

 **Date:** Friday, Sept. 1, 1944

* * *

Chapter 1

Strictly speaking, there was no real need to return to the airbase at Hawthorne Cross to follow up on yesterday's investigation into a complaint from a local shopkeeper. Bob Manning had reported that "some of them Yanks" had been loitering about, knocking over displays of what little he had to sell, and, most concerning for him, giving his young daughters the glad eye.

Sam had proved invaluable, in this matter, by taking the girls aside and having a quiet word, offering the benefit of her experience with over-friendly American servicemen. Foyle hadn't dared to ask her what she'd said to them, but the three girls, all under the age of sixteen, had returned to their father apologetic, chastened, and somehow with a new bearing of dignity.

Out at the USAAF base yesterday afternoon, while Sam had waited in, or near, the Wolseley - watching the activity of enormous heavy bombers taxiing, and covering her ears at the tremendous noise of the B-17 engines as pilots throttled up for take-off - Foyle had gone inside to talk to the Commanding Officer. In the course of their rather frank discussion, Lieutenant Colonel Bamberger had extended a friendly, informal invitation to return tomorrow for an unscheduled evening of USO entertainment. There had been no advertising of the event, and the news was strictly rationed and confined to the base. Foyle had suggested that, for the sake of Anglo-American relations, the shopkeeper and his family could be included and shown suitable hospitality. The CO had readily agreed and promised to send word of the invitation.

Foyle himself hadn't really intended to take up the American's offer, but lately he'd noticed Sam seemed a little out of sorts. Her usual enthusiasm - after several steady weeks of routine, unexceptional police enquiries - was flagging. At the Station, the general excitement, tension and interest inspired by the D-Day Normandy Invasion in June had subsided into a resigned acceptance of the regular reports of the slog of hard combat on the Continent.

It was apparent, from her daily questions and remarks, that Sam diligently followed the news from the front. She regularly studied the large map now permitted to be tacked onto the Station's kitchen wall, where Sgt. Brooke was plotting Allied troop advances. But overall her energy was undeniably low. And Foyle thought she needed a bit of cheering up.

He hadn't let on. He'd simply informed her of a late afternoon call back to the airbase, and suggested she get herself an early dinner. Yet her glum response told him that even the chance of meeting more American airmen had lost its appeal for her. And later in the car, with her quiet and weary sigh as she'd engaged the clutch, he'd been prompted to offer her a hint. As the Wolseley carried them northwards out of Hastings Foyle suppressed an anticipatory smile and asked,  
"You, _em_ , haven't anything on this evening, have you, Sam?"

"No, Sir."

Not even a smirk, he noted, and felt an unexpected twinge of disappointment.  
" _Er_... Good. Wwe might be some time at the base."

"Has there been a development? I thought the complaint had been settled." With a sudden idea, she turned to him in concern, "The _Manning daughters_...? Are they all right?"

"Nunno, they're fine, Sam. Well, assume they are. Nothing's happened."

"Oh." She settled back against the seat. "Then _why_ are we...?"

"...Just a follow up visit."

"Hmmm."

Another sigh. She was definitely bored, and uncharacteristically he felt a responsibility to provide something to enliven her day.

He glanced at her, and smirked a little himself before remarking,  
" _Lootennant_ -Colonel Bamberger said there might be some excitement on the base tonight. _We_ might be a calming presence, before any of the men think of...breaching the peace."

Sam frowned a bit, "Are there constables coming as well, Sir?"

"Nno."

She wrinkled her nose in puzzlement, "Well..., how are _you and I_...?"

" _Em_...It was his suggestion. We'll... _um_...have a look, do what we can."

She gave a half-hearted scowl of dissatisfaction which transformed into a doubting eye roll. He saw her hands fidget on the steering wheel before she confessed,  
"I _don't_ have anything on, Sir, but...I'd rather hoped to stay in and listen to the _wireless_ this evening. They're broadcasting yesterday's opening of the new Stage Door Canteen in Piccadilly. Lots of big stars. ...Do you think there might be a wireless I could, sort of, wait next to, Sir? If you're going to be a while?" A telling look of frustration.

"Well, _em_..., not sure, Sam."

A definite frown.

Foyle could see that his little attempt at subterfuge was not having the desired effect. He'd hoped to raise her curiosity, but now clearly Sam's state of mind was not at all conducive to easy enjoyment of the evening. Drumming his fingers on his hat brim resting on his knee, he pondered for several moments. Sam steered slowly and carefully around a few stray sheep escaped from the field they were passing on their way to Hawthorne Cross, then as she accelerated again he made a decision.

" _Um_ , ...Ssam. Llook, haven't been entirely honest..."

 _That_ drew a surprised glance.

"The truth is, there's a _show on_ at the base tonight, and...we've been invited to attend. Sorry. Should've just...been straight with you."

Her eyebrows rose. She blinked, then asked, "A show, Sir?"

"Yess. A...camp show-. Entertainers have come to, _em_...entertain the troops." he said awkwardly, gesturing with his hat. Foyle acknowledged with a sympathetic moue,  
"Things've been...dull, lately, ssuppose. Thought you might...enjoy a bit of... _em_..." He gave her a hopeful smile.

"Oh." She glanced at him again, doubtful, "I didn't see any notices about it at the airbase."

"No, it's rather last minute, I gather. The performers have come down from London."

" _English_ performers?" Sam asked with curtailed interest. Having heard one or two ENSA broadcasts, she'd endorsed the new version of the acronym, 'Every Night Something Awful.'

"Nnope, believe they're American. USO-?" He turned towards her, offering a friendly look, "... _British_ humour wouldn't translate successfully, for an American audience, would it?"

Sam returned his gaze, and her piqued curiosity raised a small smile,  
" _American_ stars? Do you have any names, Sir?"

"Well, it's meant to be a surprise. Very, _er_ , hush-hush."

A sudden thought and she asked excitedly, "It _couldn't_ be Bing Crosby?! Could it?! I've heard he's in London."

"...Haven't been informed, Sam. Would you be disappointed if it wasn't?"

"Oh. _No, Sir!_ Any entertainment is appreciated."

"Even... _English_...?" He pursed his lips.

Sam gave a brief laugh, "Of _course_ , Sir."

After several more minutes speeding along the country lane, she asked hesitantly,  
"So..., there _is_ no investigation? ...You're...taking me to a _show_ , Sir?"

"Wwell..." His gaze slid sideways and accidentally met his driver's for a split second. Her eyes positively sparkled with pleasure, while his own were clouding with doubt. Foyle saw as well that Sam's cheeks had flushed a delicate pink.  
He couldn't exactly _deny_ that he _was_...taking her to a show. Though it wasn't as if it were... _entirely_... _his idea_ -.

"It's very kind of you, Sir!" She focussed with renewed diligence on the road ahead, smiling happily.

Certainly cheered up. Whether for the show or for the invitation...? Perhaps he needed to give some clarification. Fingering his red necktie, Foyle explained,  
"... _Em_. It was _Lieutenant Colonel Bamberger's_ invitation."

" _Hm_!"

There was that dangerous, self-satisfied smirk. Now that he'd seen it, Foyle felt a little anxious. How could he step back from the implication that he had asked her out?  
"...Mr. Manning and _his family_ have been invited."

"Of _course_ , Sir. All for the sake of Anglo-American relations." Sam grinned, eyes forward.

"Yep." That was his story and he was sticking to it.

They drove for another quarter mile, then she remarked,  
"I'm _glad_ you've told me. Anticipation is half the enjoyment, Sir."

Foyle smiled crookedly out the side window.

tbc...

* * *

 **Historical Notes:**

ENSA, the _Entertainments National Service Association_ was an organisation set up in 1939 to provide entertainment for British armed forces personnel during World War II. Despite many extremely talented entertainers and movie stars, past and future, working for ENSA, the organisation was necessarily spread thin over the vast area it had to cover. Thus many entertainments were substandard, and the popular translation of the acronym ENSA was _"Every Night Something Awful"_. (Wikipedia)

The USO, _United Service Organizations_ , was founded in 1941 in response to a request from President Franklin D. Roosevelt to provide morale and recreation services to U.S. uniformed military personnel. During World War II, the USO became the G.I.'s "home away from home" and began a tradition of entertaining the troops that continues today.  
The organization became particularly famous for its live performances called _Camp Shows_ , through which the entertainment industry helped boost the morale of its servicemen and women. Hollywood in general was eager to show its patriotism, and many famous celebrities joined the ranks of USO entertainers. They entertained in military bases at home and overseas, sometimes placing their own lives in danger, by traveling or performing under hazardous conditions. (Wikipedia)


	2. Chapter 2

**Disclaimer:** _Foyle's War_ was created by Anthony Horowitz, and the characters of Foyle and Samantha jointly created by Mr. Horowitz, Mr. Michael Kitchen and Ms. Honeysuckle Weeks. No infringement is intended.

FW 1944: Let's Face the Music

* * *

Chapter 2

They'd arrived at the base, met with Lt-Col. Bamberger again to thank him, and been handed over to another officer, Captain Norris, who escorted them to the hangar that was to serve as the theatre. Outside the entrance door to the huge hangar, Foyle briefly noted a small poster announcing the lineup of performers. Inside the cavernous structure an impressive number of rows of benches had been set up for the men, and a few rows of chairs at the sides for higher ranking officers and guests.

At the far end there was a temporary stage, complete with hanging lights, microphones, curtain and side-curtains, closed at the moment. A microphone stand was at centre stage. The discordant sounds of many musical instruments playing fragments of several different tunes could be heard echoing in the space, as well as the soft thunder of rhythmic footfalls. It was early, but those airmen and ground crew who were already off duty had claimed prime seats on the nearest benches and were chatting together animatedly.

Their escort, Captain Norris, showed them their reserved seats, looked at his wristwatch and then offered to take them to see the backstage area. They stepped through a side-curtain and into the floor-level wings, and were astonished to see the number of technicians, musicians, dancers and performers at work - most in uniform of one service or another, some in civvies or in costume - organising the improvised facility, rehearsing songs and tunes and running through their routines. Many were unknown to them, some faces were definitely familiar, causing Sam's eyes to light up, and, as a troupe of leggy dancers filed off the stage, Foyle spotted a rake thin, tall gentleman speaking to a woman in uniform with her back to them.

###

"All right, that was fine, darling." He took the petite woman by the upper arms to reassure her, "Now _listen_. Don't worry, Delly, you'll knock 'em dead. Let's take a break, and then run through the first number again twenty minutes before curtain."

"Thanks, baby brother." Then she smirked, "Funny that _you're_ the one calming _me_ down, 'Moaning Minnie.'"

He chuckled, shaking his head at her old nickname for him, the inveterate worrier and perfectionist.

"But after all," the woman went on, "it _has_ been thirteen years! I've a right to some jitters. _Hmm_ , I _do wonder_ if I shouldn't pick up the pace a bit on, _er_...? ...Say, are _you_ listening...?"

Her brother was staring over her head, focused on something behind her.  
"Sorry. We've got company! ...Locals, I think."

He watched as the two escorted visitors looked around with interest at the buzzing hive that was the backstage area, then he nodded towards the pair, and enthused to his sister,  
"Gosh, just look at that lovely English rose!"

She glanced back, "Oh, yes, _very_ pretty. My, the gent's not hard to look at, either. Well, you go ahead and make nice, dear. I want to talk to Mel about the tempo in the second number."

"...Y'know, she's just about the sweetest thing I've seen in khaki." He stroked his long, distinctive jaw thoughtfully as he admired the girl, "Phyll would call her peaches and cream, all topped with strawberry blonde."

But he was talking to himself. Glancing around and finding his sister gone, he decided he _would_ 'make nice,' as she'd advised.

# # #

The famous performer, wearing civilian clothes of shirt and colourful tie, and trousers cinched at the waist with another necktie, skipped down the steps from the stage and strolled nonchalantly across the concrete hangar floor, one hand in a pocket. The precise clicks of his tap shoes drew their attention.

"Evening, Captain Norris..."

"Oh, Mr. Astaire! Have you got everything you need?"

"Yes, thanks, it's all swell..." Norris could see the star's smiling attention was diverted to one of the guests.

"...Mr. Fred Astaire, may I introduce Detective Chief Superintendent Foyle of the Hastings Police, ...and Miss Stewart."

"Glad to meet you, Mr. Foyle, Miss Stewart. Not here on _official_ police business, I hope?" He leaned forward with a confidential grin, "Somma the fellas in the _band_ are rather shady characters."

Foyle removed his hat and shook hands with the svelte gentleman, surprised to see he was actually not much taller than himself. He acknowledged the joke with a smile,  
"Pleasure to meet you. How d'you do. No, _em_ , your musicians are safe for the moment."

"Good. Staying for the show, Miss Stewart?" Astaire inquired, extending his hand and holding on to hers.

"Yes, we are! The CO has v-very kindly invited us."

Foyle noted with pleasure Sam was truly goggle-eyed at the Hollywood star, despite his balding pate. ' _Lost even more than I have over the years, poor devil.'_ he commiserated inwardly.

Captain Norris bowed and left them to their moment with the stage and film entertainer, other duties to attend to.

"Well, that's swell. I hope you'll like it."

"I-I'm sure we shall. Is this yo-your _first_ visit to England, Mr. Astaire?"

Foyle poked his tongue into his cheek, glancing at Fred and then looking away.

"Why, _no_ , Miss Stewart. Let's see...our very first visit was way back in the twenties. Probably before you were born! _Heh-heh._ We came over to perform in a little show in London, and in fact we began the run up north, in Liverpool and Glasgow and Edinburgh, to try out the musical numbers, see how folks liked them over here."

"Was it a success?" She asked brightly.

Sam heard a slightly choked cough from beside her and turned to see Mr. Foyle staring hard at the floor.

Astaire chuckled, "Well, yes, it _was_. We stayed a whole year!" He bent towards her, absently caressing the gold signet ring on his little finger,  
"But I have to confess, my _sister_ was the real star -."

Foyle raised his head to remark in a strangely hushed voice, "Adele...was a _sensation_." He looked at Fred and smiled, "...You both danced on the roof of the Savoy Hotel."

Astaire grinned in surprise, "That's _right_ , Mr. Foyle! Gosh, I'd almost forgotten. A stunt for the press, of course. Publicity for the show..."

"Forty-five minutes, everyone!" A voice called from somewhere on the stage.

"...Well, we've got _a couple_ of numbers planned for this evening. ...Adele's just working with our accompanist." He pivoted and waved a hand towards his sister, the small, dark-haired woman in uniform, standing at the piano holding sheet music.

Sam noticed Mr. Foyle go wide-eyed, looking intently across the stage to where her brother had gestured, before he asked in concern,  
"Lady Cavendish is _here_? It's...rather _soon_ after...?"

The dancer was again surprised, and stepped closer to the policeman to say quietly,  
"Yyes, well, that's a... _misfortune_ she'd just as soon put behind her. In fact, _um_ , Delly's working for the American Red Cross in London. They've given her leave to join us on the tour this week."

Foyle nodded, his eyes fixed on the petite though now matronly woman by the piano.

Turning to Sam, Astaire raised his brows in amazement,  
"... _Next_ week the rest of us will be in _France_!"  
He shook his head at the idea, "Hard to believe we can get in there so soon, when they've only just pushed the Nazis out."

"Gosh! Will it be quite safe, do you think?"

"Well, I'll put my trust in the Allied Forces, Miss Stewart. If they want us there, it'll be my _honor_ to perform for them."

"I think I'd feel the same way. ...How many performances do you expect to do in _England_ , Mr. Astaire?"

"As a matter of fact, this is our _third_... _today_..." He raised a hand to rub the back of his neck, "We're all travelling by bus, visiting as many bases as we can manage to fit in."

"My goodness! How wonderful." Sam looked around appreciatively, "I think you're all marvellous!"

Astaire grinned, clearly charmed by the girl. Foyle glanced at the pair, and quirked a crooked smile as well.

Just then Adele came walking across the stage and down the steps towards them. Sam was quite certain Mr. Foyle's ears had gone rather pink, and he bit his lower lip nervously.

"Ah, here's my girl! Let me introduce you. _Delly_...?!"

tbc...

* * *

 **Historical Notes:  
** Fred and Adele Astaire appeared at the opening of the Stage Door Canteen in Piccadilly on Aug. 31, 1944, the night before this story takes place. Fred danced and MC'd that evening, but Adele did not dance with him, as she had not performed on stage since 1931. They joked around at the mic together. Video of that event can be found on YouTube!  
Fred then went on to perform in USO Shows around England, sometimes with the Glenn Miller Band and Bing Crosby, and by Sept. 5th he was in Cherbourg, France with Bing to perform in Camp Shows.

On Sept.1, 1944 Fred was 45 and Adele was about to turn 48 on the 10th.

"Phyll" refers to Fred's wife, Phyllis, to whom he was entirely devoted. They were married from 1933 until her death (from lung cancer) in 1954.


	3. Chapter 3

**Disclaimer:** _Foyle's War_ was created by Anthony Horowitz, and the characters of Foyle and Samantha jointly created by Mr. Horowitz, Mr. Michael Kitchen and Ms. Honeysuckle Weeks. No infringement is intended.

 **A/N:** The dialogue gets a little tricky in this scene, as there are two conversations going on at the same time. But it is done for comic effect, so good luck!  
Thanks to 'dancesabove' for her suggestions to improve the dialogue spoken by Fred Astaire.

FW 1944: Let's Face the Music

* * *

Chapter 3

After the introductions the two couples fell into quite separate conversations. However, despite her dazzlement with Mr. Astaire and his kind attention to her, Sam found she was distracted and intrigued by Mr. Foyle's sustained discussion with his sister, and couldn't stop herself from listening in.

"...wife was a great admirer. Ever since we attended your musical play at the Shaftesbury Theatre in 1923..."

"Say, Miss Stewart, have _you_ ever performed on stage?"  
( _What on earth was she saying to Mr. Foyle?!_ )

"' _Stop Flirting_!'"

"Miss Stewart?"  
"...Performed? Oh - only in the choir or a school Christmas pageant, Sir."  
"Well that's grand. What part did you play? The Virgin Mary?"

"Yes, that was it!" Mr. Foyle agreed happily.

"Part? I'm afraid not, Sir. I was usually the front end of a donkey."  
"Oh. Well, that's...just fine. We all had to start somewhere. Y'know, in vaudeville I once performed dressed as a lobster! By the way, no need to 'Sir' me, Miss Stewart." His smile was friendly, but he was growing amused and rather curious at the young woman's obvious distraction.

"Why, that was our _debut_ in London! Seems like a _lifetime_ ago..." Adele put her hand on Mr. Foyle's forearm and left it there. "How kind of you to remember."  
"Well, it was very _memorable_." He put his hand over hers, moved by the recollection.

( _He's twinkling his eyes at her!_ )  
"Call me Fred, Miss Stewart, most everybody does." He ran a hand suavely over his remaining hair, but still didn't seem to have the girl's full attention.

"Thirty minutes, Mr. Astaire." A businesslike voice called from across the stage.

"...Was, _em_ , our first journey away from home when our son was quite small, and my wife was anxious about leaving him. Your _performance_ was so engaging, it...allowed her to _thoroughly_ enjoy the evening."  
"Oh! ...That's _very_ touching. _Thank-you_ , Mr. Foyle." She blinked back a little moisture in her eyes.  
"Truly was...one of the _happiest_ evenings of our life. We'd _often_ recall it."  
"I'm so glad. One never knows _how_ one's work might affect a member of the audience."  
"Well, in fact, Rosalind - my wife - went straight out and bought the recording of, _em, 'Oh Gee, Oh Gosh...?'"_

"Miss Stewart...?" _('Why was she so fascinated by **their** conversation?')_  
 _(Look at his_ _ **smile**_ _! What_ _ **are**_ _they talking of?!)_

" _'...Oh Golly, I Love You'!_ How very kind. Our first record! And the other side was..."  
" _'The Whichness of the Whatness.'_ We, _em_ , would _attempt_ to sing it together… Rosalind did _your part_ quite well, but, _er...I_ could never keep up!"

 _(Was he_ _ **laughing**_ _with her?! Mr. Foyle?! Laughing?! It's as if they're old friends.)  
_ "Well, _um_ , if you'll excuse me..., Miss Stewart...?"  
Fred gave up, glancing at his sister and Mr. Foyle, then back at Miss Stewart. With a wry smile, a shrug, and a little shake of his head, he walked away from the lovely girl.

"Oh, don't feel _bad_ \- even after _hundreds_ of performances we really had to concentrate on those nonsensical lyrics!"  
"You did it perfectly, Lady Cavendish."  
"Thank-you. ...But," she patted his arm, "I prefer _Adele_ now. Just as in '23."  
"Yes…" He lowered his head in respect, "Read about your recent, _em_ … Please allow me to offer my condolences, _Miss...em_..."  
" _Adele_. Please. You may. Thank-you, _um_...?"  
"C-Christopher." He offered readily, quite under her spell.  
"Christopher..." She smiled, studying his face with evident attraction.

Samantha stood a little distance away, nearly gaping, amazed at their rather quick intimacy and the effect _her_ Mr. Foyle was having on the lady.

"Twenty minutes, Mr. Astaire! Miss Astaire!"

"Oh dear! Duty calls. Wish me luck, Christopher." She said a little breathlessly, and stretched up to land a kiss on his cheek, "...I'm afraid I'm a bit rusty. And we've only had a few days to rehearse together!"  
"We're very appreciative, ...Adele! _Um_ , _'break a leg.'_ " And he waggled his eyebrows.  
She laughed merrily, "That's right!"  
A little reluctantly she parted from him, then trotted away, calling over her shoulder, "Thanks! Enjoy the show...!"

Adele bounced up the steps, and joined her brother already on the stage.

Sam looked about, surprised to find herself alone. She sidled closer to Mr. Foyle, but his attention was entirely on the two mature dancers rehearsing, moving lightly together across the floor. At a pause in their routine, he sighed, and pressed his lips into a melancholy smile.

###

While they'd been chatting with the performers, the audience of nearly two thousand enthusiastic servicemen had arrived, and the hangar had filled up and become raucously noisy. Foyle and Sam came through the side curtain and took their chairs near the front and to the left side of the benches, amongst other civilian guests. They spotted the five members of the Manning family a few rows ahead and nodded and smiled to them.

But Sam was curious about her boss's interest in the sister of the Hollywood star. She studied his innocent profile until he was compelled, with a heavenward glance, to turn and ask over the loud chatter,  
"Yes, Sam?"  
"I never said a word, Sir."  
" _Um-hmm_?" He narrowed his eyes at her.  
"Well, ...had you met Miss Astaire _before_ , Sir?"  
"Nope. Not 'met.' Saw her on stage in London. Many years ago."  
"...With _Mrs._ Foyle?"  
"Yyes." He gave her a brief smile, then turned away, glancing over the crowd. She strained to hear him add, "Was a... _present_ for her twenty-first birthday."

Sam's eyebrows shot up. She tried to picture Mr. Foyle as a young man with a wife younger than herself - a happier man, with expectations of a long, happy marriage. She continued watching him thoughtfully, until the lady beside her tapped her on the shoulder. Sam turned to see a man in the aisle attempting to get her attention.

The efficient-looking crew member with a clipboard spoke to her deferentially,  
"Miss Stewart? Would you mind coming with me, please? Mr. Astaire would like a word."  
She and Foyle both looked surprised, as did the people in the seats around them.  
"With _me_? Well, ...yes, of course."  
Sam flashed a look of curiosity at Foyle. She stood and set her cap on her head, shuffled sideways out of the row and followed the man as he walked quickly towards the backstage area. On the other side of the curtain again, he told her,  
"We got a little problem, Miss. One of the performers, Miss Dickson, has hurt her ankle."  
" _Dorothy_ Dickson?! Oh dear! Does she need first aid? I _am_ trained."  
"She's being taken care of, but, ...I'll let Mr. Astaire explain..."  
And there was Fred again, looking her over with a rather appraising regard. Sam stood to attention, wide-eyed,  
"Yes, Sir. How can I _help_?"  
To Sam's confusion, the man with the clipboard asked, "Shall I get wardrobe, Fred?"  
"No, no, the uniform will do just fine. Come with me, Miss Stewart. Now, as a patriotic young woman, I'm sure you'd do _anything_ for our brave fighting men, isn't that right...?"  
"Well, of course, Mr. Astaire. ...Within reason."  
"Swell. I'll tell you what I have in mind..."

###

Checking his wristwatch, Foyle grew increasingly concerned that Sam might miss the start of the show. But he trusted that Mr. Astaire had a legitimate reason to ask for her, and that she was in safe hands. Noise from the benches increased as everyone anticipated the curtain opening. Sounds of instruments tuning up in earnest came from backstage, then suddenly there was a great musical crescendo signalling an overture.

While the guests in the chairs went attentively quiet, there was a startling, deafening eruption of applause, cheers and whistles from the benches, the like of which Foyle had never heard.

 _'Americans weren't shy to voice their appreciation,'_ he observed to himself, and followed the lead of the other English guests around him by putting his hands over his ears. A wise precaution because a moment later, when a man in uniform strode across the stage towards the microphone, the cheering grew even louder. The man raised his hands for quiet, but as the crowd readied themselves to listen, he grinned, swept his arms down then up again, fingers waggling to invoke more applause. The multitude of servicemen obliged boisterously and it was another few minutes before they settled down at last.

The MC, a tall, slender, bespectacled, fair-haired man, stood at the microphone and introduced himself as Sgt. Mel Powell,  
"Well boys, we know you've been working real hard over here, and we're going to do our best to give you a little entertainment this evening. Hope to take your minds off things and help you relax for a few hours. There are a bunch of us here that've come over from back home, and now that you've got _the Krauts_ on the run…"

Here he was interrupted by universal cheers.

"...We want to show our appreciation in person for everything you're doing to defeat fascism and hatred, and restore freedom to the good people of Europe. We'll be following you into France and beyond, setting up our little circus tents and putting on shows as often as we can, wherever you fellas are camped." After further applause, Sgt. Powell went on, "We've got a pretty good line up for you…"

He announced some of the performers they would see, which sparked more cheers and whistles as each was named.  
"Right now, I'd like to introduce the fellas that've been squeaking and tootling backstage -." At his wave the curtain opened to reveal an orderly arrangement of uniformed musicians on risers, and a piano at stage left. "We're the 'advance guard' of the American Band of the AEF, including the fellas that make up the _Uptown Hall Swing Sextet_."

After the thunderous applause faded, he explained,  
"Now, you may want to know that _Major_ Glenn Miller - yes, that's right, he's just got a promotion! - Glenn and the other fellas in the band are performing a little farther north tonight. Along with Bing Crosby and others, they're doing shows for some of the boys in the hospitals. But I think you'll agree that we'll make out just fine here on our own."

Without further ado, he introduced their first number, Miller's phenomenal hit of 1940, _Tuxedo Junction_. After wild applause, they launched into the next number without pausing to introduce it, _Pennsylvania 6-5000_ , and next came _G. I. Jive_. As the players extended the finishing notes, Sgt. Powell trotted over from the piano to the microphone stand and welcomed on stage seven gentleman also wearing U. S. Army Air Forces uniforms of serge wool shirt, tie and trousers - the singing group known as The Crew Chiefs.

"We hope you'll enjoy this new tune just written by Glenn Miller and our own Artie Malvin." One of the singers gave a bow and a salute. "...A little ditty called, _I'm Headin' For California_. Stepping away from his percussion duties and singing lead is Ray McKinley."

While Foyle appreciated the music, and was glad to see the throng of dedicated, hardworking servicemen enjoying the show, he couldn't entirely focus on the performers, too preoccupied with wondering what was keeping Sam. It really seemed unfair that she should miss such a rare and wonderful evening of entertainment. He had made up his mind to go in search of her on the next break in the programme, and was about to stand and apologise for having to disturb his neighbours in the row, when the MC began to introduce Mr. Astaire. Foyle reasoned that, since it was he that had asked for Sam, Astaire's appearance might provide the answer to why she hadn't returned.

tbc...

* * *

 **Historical Notes:  
** According to the research I did for creating this 'Fantasy USO Show,' all the performers mentioned in this and in the next chapters did perform in USO Shows in the UK and on the Continent, and could have potentially appeared at such an airbase in England. The Glenn Miller Band, or more properly, the American Band of the Allied Expeditionary Force, arrived in Bedford, UK in July 1944, and toured bases and recorded programs and concerts for broadcast, before they were scheduled to travel to France in December. Many of the singers mentioned sang with the band.

Adele Astaire's husband, Lord Charles Cavendish, had only just died in March, at age 38, of acute alcoholism. Sources say his death was a relief to her.


	4. Chapter 4

**Disclaimer:** _Foyle's War_ was created by Anthony Horowitz, and the characters of Foyle and Samantha jointly created by Mr. Horowitz, Mr. Michael Kitchen and Ms. Honeysuckle Weeks. No infringement is intended.

FW 1944: Let's Face the Music

* * *

Chapter 4

Approaching the microphone to enthusiastic applause, the slender gentleman waved, bowed and stood with a hand in his pocket, looking elegant even in casual trousers and open-necked shirt with an ascot.

"Well, thanks Mel, and thanks ladies and gentlemen. It's great to be here at Station 387, once known as Hawthorne Cross Farm, I believe. Now, I understand _you boys_ have the better deal, sleeping in nice dry bunkhouses on the airfield, while the officers are suffering from _chilblains_ in the old school they've affectionately dubbed 'Saints Preserve Us,' is that right?"

 _(Cheers of agreement.)_

"...Well, what can they expect? The school's about four hundred years old - and it's the _new one_ around here!" He paused, waiting for the laughter to subside, "Okay, that's enough ad libbing from me - not really my racket, if y'know what I mean. No, I'd rather do a few _steps_ for you, now, with a little help from the fellas in the-."

He looked over his right shoulder towards Mel and the band, but then Fred did a double take, pretending to be surprised by an interruption, as a pretty young woman in khaki uniform 'wandered onstage' to his right.

In the audience, watching from his chair, Foyle's eyes widened and his mouth fell open, unsure whether this was actually part of the performance. Chuckles and laughter arose from the men on the benches, while guests in chairs turned to each other, puzzled and amused.

"...Can I _help_ you, Miss?" Astaire asked, looking confused but intrigued, eyeing the crowd. Sam stepped up to stand near him at the microphone, holding her cap with both hands. Her strawberry-blonde hair had been softly rearranged, though still in its regulation victory roll, and makeup and bright red lipstick had been applied. She was radiant and fresh-faced, and seemed to glow under the stage lighting.

"Oh, hello. Actually, I was looking for the canteen. I've heard they're serving _doughnuts_! Would you happen to know where the canteen is?" _(Laughter)_

"Well, yes, I do. I'd take you right to it, Miss, but, _um_ ," he gestured out to the audience, "I was just about to do a few numbers for the boys, here."

"The boys?"

"Yeah." Facing her, he pointed to the thousand-plus spectators with his left thumb, "These guys. Would you like to say hello to the boys?"

Sam looked out at the crowd, as if noticing them for the first time, and made a surprised face. "My goodness! Hello."

 _(Loud calls of greeting from the boys - "Hiya, honey! Hello, sugar! Hey there, gorgeous!" - flooded onto the stage.)_

"Well…! I do hope there are enough doughnuts for you all." _(More laughter. She's a hit!)_

Sam swept her gaze left and right over the audience and, leaning over in an aside to the Hollywood star, stage whispered into the microphone,  
"There's rather a lot of them, isn't there? Are you _quite sure_ there are enough doughnuts?" _(Laughter)_

"Oh, don't worry about that, Miss-." He paused, and then put on an exaggerated English accent, "I say! We _hauven't_ been _propahly intr'duced_. My name's...," he drew himself up into a formal pose, and bowed gallantly, "...Frederic. Frederic Astaire."

"How do you do. I'm-."

Fred put up a hand to stop her, "No, don't tell me! Let me guess…" Hands on hips, he tilted his head, "Arabella? Sybil? Constance? Elspeth? Cordelia?"

"I'm Sam!" She put out her hand forthrightly. _(More laughter from the audience.)_

"...Sam?" Fred slumped a bit, shaking her hand limply.

"Short for Samantha. You can call me _Miss Stewart_." _(Laughter)_ "...Now, about those _doughnuts_?" She craned her neck, looking around and behind him anxiously.

"Nice to meet you, Miss Stewart. Say, you're not from the _base_ , are you?" Arching an eyebrow at the audience to include them in the joke.

"I'm from _Hastings_ , just south of here. Well, actually I'm from _Lyminster_ , just west of here. Before that, I came from _Oxford_ , some miles north of here, because my _father_ -."

Sitting back in his seat, wide-eyed and smiling in amusement, Foyle was reminded of his first encounter with Samantha, four years ago. That very first day, in his office and then in the car, on the receiving end of her bright chatter, he had found it rather taxing on his patience - but seeing her recreate and exaggerate her well-meaning friendliness now, as a performance, he was really quite charmed by it. And more than a little astonished at her pluck in taking the stage in front of such a crowd. Watching her at a distance like this was a new experience, too, and he couldn't deny how truly lovely and attractive she was, despite the khaki uniform. Certainly the hundreds of men occupying the benches on the vast hangar floor appreciated her, he noted with a sidelong glance.

Fred broke in and interrupted Sam's lengthy explanation of her origins,  
"Well, y'know, Miss Stewart, I didn't _think_ you were from _Stonehenge_. You're much too up to date!" And he looked her up and down appreciatively. A chorus of wolf whistles arose from the servicemen.

Astaire turned to the audience, "Now cut that out, boys! She's got a _father_."

"Yes, I do! In fact, he's a Vicar!"

" _Uh-oh_. Let me translate. Boys, her father's a minister of the church, a Reverend, you know, ... _the wrath of God_." Fred nodded warningly and waved his index finger side to side. _(Much laughter.)_

"Oh, he's not so bad, really, Mr. Astaire. Although..., _once_ , father carried Uncle Aubrey's _shotgun_ over to Farmer Parkin's place. ...Mr. Parkin was always chasing me for some reason."  
Sam tilted her head in comic puzzlement, a finger on her cheek.

Amidst the audience laughter, Foyle couldn't help chuckling along with them. He folded his arms and rested a hand against his mouth, hiding a fond smile.

Mr. Astaire continued, "Can't _imagine_ why…!" He gave the men a knowing look, inspiring more wolf whistles, calls and laughter.  
Then he turned back to Sam, "Well, since you're _here_ , would you like to say anything to the boys, Miss Stewart?"

Smiling, she ducked her head nervously, grasping her cap with both hands in front of her, then looked out over the audience,  
"Yes, I would. I-I'd like to thank you all for being here, and for doing the important job you're doing. I expect England must seem a rather funny old place, but it's our home and we like it. I'm sure _you_ , and the Canadians, the Australians, the Free French, the Belgians, the Poles, the Dutch..., all feel the _same_ about _your homes_. And-and _now_...well, we're all in this _together_! And I'd like to wish you all the best of luck!"

Her honest, heartfelt words brought waves of applause, which Foyle joined in with, very impressed with her composure and sincerity.  
Clearly moved as well, Fred nodded his approval. Then finally, to wind up their hastily prepared, mostly improvised bit, he asked her,  
"...Tell me, Miss Stewart, do you _dance_?"

As agreed and coached backstage, she shook her head,  
"Oh, no, Mr. Astaire. I've... _had lessons_ , but, well, my father, Reverend Stewart, always said to me..., 'Samantha, despite Psalm 149 - _'Let them praise his name in the dance'_ \- it would be best for everyone...if I sat down with a tambourine."  
 _(Laughter)  
_ "Yes, you see, on the _dance floor_..., well I'm afraid I've put more airmen's toes out of commission than...frostbite in a B-17!"  
 _(Uproarious laughter, cheers and whistles.)_

Then she turned to face him,  
"But I've heard _you're_ not too bad at all, Mr. Astaire."

"Well, gosh..., thanks." He stared at his feet, grinning bashfully as everyone applauded in agreement.

"So, _em_ , if you could just point me in the direction of the _canteen_..., Mr. Astaire, I'll let you get on with it!"

Fred deadpanned to the crowd, "One track mind, _eh_ , fellas?! All right, then..."  
He turned and called to the wings, "Say, _Johnny_ -? Johnny Desmond-?"

One of the singers from The Crew Chiefs trotted on stage.

"Johnny, would you mind escorting Miss Stewart to the canteen? See that she gets a doughnut, would you?"

"I'd be delighted, Fred." He made a polite bow to the girl.

Sam gave Astaire a questioning look, and he amended his request,  
"Better make that _two_." _(Laughter)_

As Desmond led her off, Sam hesitated with a pleading look over her shoulder.

"All right, _three_ , but that's my final offer!" _(More laughter from the benches.)_

With a happy grin, and as they had planned, Sam ran back to plant a kiss on Fred's cheek. But instead he caught her in his arms and effortlessly spun around in circles with her several times. Sam followed his lead instinctively as he twirled her out on an extended arm, then back into his embrace, and out again on the other, and he presented her to the audience with an elegant flourish. It was clear to all that this was quite unrehearsed - and unexpected - by the surprise on the girl's face. Sam 'broke character,' hands steepled over her mouth and looking at Mr. Astaire in tearful delight.

To great cheers, Fred drew her in for an affectionate one-armed hug, saying a few private words of thanks and praise into her ear, and then handed her over to Johnny Desmond. With his gallant support, Sam walked off a bit shakily, stage left, rallying at the last moment to give the audience a friendly wave.

Fred gestured after her, grinning,  
"Miss Samantha Stewart, ladies and gentlemen! Of the Mechanised Transport Corps, based _'just south of here'_ at Hastings! Isn't she a good sport?!"

There was a great round of applause and laughter.

Then the band started a lively overture to the tune of _'Top Hat, White Tie and Tails,'_ and, to renewed and enthusiastic applause, Astaire struck a pose for the start of his first number, _'No Strings.'_

While the servicemen were focused on the stage and Mr. Astaire's exuberant dancing, Sam snuck through the side curtain and crept back to her seat. The other guests in their row and around them greeted her with approving smiles and nods. Sam bowed her head as she quickly sidestepped in, grinning but self-conscious, and fell into her chair close beside her boss, chest heaving from the thrill and the adrenaline rush of performing with the famous entertainer.

Foyle was grinning himself, and murmured a quiet, "Well done." But for once he felt his words entirely inadequate, and with a shake of his head, added, "...Superb."

Sam looked up into his face, surprised, pleased and blushing prettily, then turned her attention to the stage. It was some moments before Foyle took his eyes off her, newly impressed and entranced by her beaming vitality, and rather thoughtful over her sweet, unaffected response to the brief dance she had shared.

tbc...


	5. Chapter 5

**Disclaimer:** _Foyle's War_ was created by Anthony Horowitz, and the characters of Foyle and Samantha jointly created by Mr. Horowitz, Mr. Michael Kitchen and Ms. Honeysuckle Weeks. No infringement is intended.

FW 1944: Let's Face the Music

* * *

Chapter 5

They enjoyed the continuing show together, marveling at the quality and energy of the performances, and dazzled by the big names that had come to appear on a makeshift stage in a temporary aircraft hangar in the English countryside. They heard Dinah Shore sing ' _Honeysuckle Rose,'_ and _'You'd Be So Nice to Come Home To.'_ Jack Buchanan performed an old comic song, ' _Everything Stops for Tea'_ \- replacing the reference to 'Germany and beer' with 'America and Coca-Cola' - and then danced a suave duet with Fred Astaire, with the leggy chorus line behind them; Beryl Davis sang a sweet rendition of ' _Bluebirds in the Moonlight;'_ then there was more from the Crew Chiefs, singing amended lyrics to ' _What Do You Do in the Infantry?'_ to put a word in for the Air Corps. There was an upbeat instrumental from the entire band, ' _My Guy's Come Back,_ ' and a fabulous improvisational medley around ' _I Got Rhythm'_ by Ray McKinley and Johnny Desmond. Then Mel Powell played a jazzy piano composition of his own, ' _Red Light,'_ along with the sextet, that had the airmen practically dancing in their seats.

All the while, in the background, between performances, there was the distant thunder of heavy bombers rolling out for take-off, reminding the guests of the reason they were gathered at this spot, and reminding the airmen of their awaiting duties.

When Fred and Adele took the stage, to sustained enthusiastic applause, Foyle and Sam watched with a happy anticipation. The syncopated introductory notes began and the brother and sister duo joined hands in a gentle soft shoe dance, singing a sweet old song, ' _Hang On To Me.'_ For Sam, viewing it from her own youthful time of life, the lyrics and melody conveyed a hopeful, cheerful, forward-looking message of jolly friendship.

For Foyle the associations were quite different.

Glancing brightly over at him to share her enjoyment, Sam was startled and dismayed to see his face momentarily constricted in deep sorrow before he regained his composure. Noticing her worried attention, he swallowed hard and pinched the bridge of his nose. After a moment he cleared his throat and muttered to her,  
"...Ffrom a Gershwin play, ' _Lady Be Good_.' Saw them in it in '26."

Sam nodded but she knew there was much more behind his reaction to the song. She wouldn't intrude now. Yet she was concerned and, she had to admit, fascinated at the emotional effect the tune had had on her stoical boss.

The charming performance continued, captivating every spectator as Fred and Adele played off each other, jocularly competing for the limelight or graciously giving way in clearly very fond mutual admiration.

Sam stole fleeting glances at Mr. Foyle, and it occurred to her that she'd rarely heard music playing in his house when she'd happened to be there beyond their usual morning greeting or evening farewell. Not even the few nights she'd stayed while waiting for a new billet to come available. She'd assumed he _preferred_ the news bulletins and weather forecasts, but now she understood that some tunes - the music of his younger years - simply held memories for him that were too affecting, even too painful, for casual indulgence. Perhaps he'd lost the habit of enjoying music.

And Sam wondered if _she_ would feel such strong emotional attachment to the latest wartime songs and dance numbers, when she was older.

The expression on Mr. Foyle's face as he listened to the Astaires singing together was a mixture of fond remembrance, pleasure, and such gentle sadness that she was inspired to reach across to him. Sam cautiously laid her hand over his where it rested on his knee. He didn't pull away, but kept his eyes on the stage, as he lowered his chin and turned slightly towards her with a faint, warm smile. He pressed her fingers, and allowed her hand to remain until the last lyrics and the final piano chord.

In fact Sam noticed, as they applauded along with the appreciative audience, that he avoided meeting her eyes then and for some time after, until several more modern numbers had been heard.

Eventually, as the AEF orchestra began playing _'I'll Be Seeing You,'_ their popular new arrangement of the song, he flashed one of his twinkling inverted smiles at her. It was a song that Sam had lately been in the habit of singing in the Station kitchen.  
On a quiet evening a little while ago, he'd had to ask her to 'turn down the volume' when she'd thrown her heart into it while doing the washing up, and could be heard all the way to the front desk. Foyle had sat in his office listening to her, head tilted first in mild exasperation, then in fond amusement at her ardent rendition. But by the time he'd made his way down the corridor, the aching tremolo in her voice had him pausing, an unwanted catch in his throat, and waiting as she sweetly drew out the final notes, ' _I'll be looking at the moon..., but I'll be see-eeing...youuu...!'  
_ He'd harrumphed quietly before pivoting into the open doorway and squinting an eye shut, "... _Thought_ this was a Police Station. Have I wandered into a _cabaret_ by mistake?"  
Sam had turned quickly from the sinkful of soapy dishwater, blushing, and had grinned sheepishly over her shoulder, "Sorry, Sir." And cheekily added, "No cover for VIPs...!"

For the next performer, some minor preparations were needed. Sgt. Powell walked across the stage to place a high stool front and centre. Then one of the more beefy members of The Crew Chiefs appeared, carrying in his arms a pretty, middle-aged woman, with her ankle conspicuously bandaged. The lady made comical faces at the crowd, big eyes telegraphing her delight with the young man.

Powell introduced her as the pair made their way across the stage, and all the while the audience applauded the American-born, British theatrical star. It was Dorothy Dickson, showing herself to be a real trouper, insisting on doing a song for the boys regardless of her injury.

The gallant Forces lieutenant set her down, perched daintily atop the stool, and Mel moved the microphone stand back to place it before her. The orchestra waited patiently as Miss Dickson made a show of holding onto the arm of her tall assistant and whispering a request in Mel's ear. He nodded, and then took up his baton to conduct the band and begin the melody.

Her number, ' _Looking For a Boy,'_ from another old Gershwin musical, had been a sweetly pleading little love song when she'd originally sung it as an ingénue. But now Dickson, aged fifty-one, parodied it as a hilarious comic piece. As she sang she summoned one by one all the available male singers and musicians from the wings for amorous inspection, and when she landed on the key word, " _hello,"_ gave it such a waggish emphasis that the entire crowd roared with laughter. By the last line, she had collected around her a dozen young beaux and chosen to keep them all. Dickson took her bows supported on both sides by handsome USAAF officers from the company.

And then the evening concluded with the whole ensemble on stage singing together a rousing and defiant rendition of Vera Lynn's hugely popular, ' _We'll Meet Again.'_ The thoroughly satisfied audience rose to their feet and joined in boisterously.

After the final remarks and bows there was a surprisingly quick evacuation of about three-quarters of the airmen on the floor, but those who were off-duty thronged around the stage, and some were assigned to the detail stowing away the benches and chairs. Looking towards the stage area, it was clear to Foyle that the entertainers were devoting the few post-show minutes they had to mixing with the servicemen, so he and Sam followed the departing crowd.

As they made their way towards the huge opening made by the sliding hangar doors, they exchanged a few enthusiastic pleasantries with Mr. Manning and his family, others they knew and many they didn't. Foyle could hear, in the general commotion, several male American voices calling, _'Miss Stewart!'_ and even familiarly, _'Hey, Sam!'_ but luckily she was caught up in conversation with the very excited Manning girls. Bob Manning declined his offer of a ride home, saying the Americans had provided transportation for the Hastings guests. Outside, the airfield was nearly pitch black, and servicemen with masked torches escorted different groups to the waiting buses and staff cars.

# # #

They arrived at the Wolseley, tucked away in a lane between two outbuildings.  
Sam stopped by the car and said,  
"I think I'd best wait a moment, Sir - give my eyes time to adjust to the dark, if you don't mind?"  
"Wull, that's wise. ...Don't really have a choice, do I?"  
She laughed and answered him, "Not if you'd like the car returned in one piece."  
"I _would_."

They stood together, basking in the warm, late summer air, leaning their backs against the passenger side of the car. Sam removed her cap, and then closed her eyes, the better to speed up the transition to night vision. After the departure of the last vehicles, the airfield was surprisingly quiet, with only the rumble of distant engines warming up for flight.

Sam remarked, "I've heard the government are planning to lift the blackout soon, Sir. Is that right?"  
"It's likely, yes. Looks as if the Luftwaffe is finished. Hasn't been a bombing raid since May. There are still the V1 rockets, but _they_ aren't deterred by darkness."  
"...We're really _winning_ the war, aren't we?"  
"W'oh, don't count your chickens... But, _em_ , with the help of _our friends_..." He nodded towards the active landing strip, "...it looks promising."

Foyle glanced at her, saw that Sam kept her eyes shut, and his gaze lingered on her placid, glowing features. Then she smiled to herself, and, guiltily, he thought somehow he'd been caught staring, until she shared her musings,  
"Miss Dickson was so clever! What a droll song!"  
"Very, but... I'd thought she was _unable_ to perform. Isn't that why _you_ were... _um_?"  
"Yes, she was meant to sing a duet and _dance_ with Miss Astaire, but that had to be cancelled. There was a gap in the programme, so..."  
"I see." He ran his tongue over his lips, "...Yyou were _terrific_ , Sam. I'd no idea..."  
"Thank-you, Sir! Mr. Astaire said to just...be myself."  
"Well you _were_..., only, ... _more_ so." He said pleasantly.  
Still with her eyes closed, she laughed, and dared to tease him,  
"I never took you for a 'stage door Johnny,' Sir."  
His mouth twisted to one side, eyes sparkling in amusement.  
"W'-I'd've brought _flowers_ …"

Rather pleased at that thought, Sam had been about to jokingly offer him her autograph, when the quiet of the evening was shattered by a sudden loud roar. Her eyes flew open and she jumped, making an instinctive grab for protection.  
" _Oh!_ What was _that_?!"

Surprised at finding her arms thrown around his neck - and his own arms tight around Sam to stop their tumbling to the ground - Foyle didn't immediately reply. Her startled reaction had given a jolt to his own response. Heart thudding in his chest, he puffed out a breath to calm it, then chuckled lightly,  
"...Bomber landing, applying reverse thrust. Yyou all right?"  
"Nearly j-jumped out of my _skin_!" She protested shakily, glaring in the direction of the offending aircraft, and not letting go.  
"Expect there'll be _more_ of them..."  
Half-smiling, he moved his hands to her waist, expecting her to step back, but Sam looked up into his eyes with a wobbly smile. And the moment held as they studied each other at close range, Sam not wishing to look away and Foyle, momentarily, not able. His smile resolved into the upside down version, hers into a grateful, admiring one.  
Avoiding potential awkwardness, he looked upwards, suggesting,  
"Perhaps we should, _em_...?"  
Sam hesitated in a confusion of impulses, but then good sense took over,  
"Yyes...!" She stepped away and quickly walked around to the driver's door.

Across the roof of the car their eyes met again, both smiling to themselves. Ducking down into her seat, Sam's breath caught - had she just glimpsed _more_ than amusement in that look? Was it a trick of the light - or rather, of the darkness - that his expression seemed to have warmed into something... _wonderful_? As she settled into her place behind the wheel, she stole a shy glance at him, but Mr. Foyle was occupied with rolling down his side window. _'Must have imagined it.'_

Starting the motor and engaging the clutch, she asked,  
"How do they do that…?"  
"Do what?" Uncharacteristically he'd lost the thread of the topic.  
"Reverse thrust."  
"Oh. Well, I'm no aeronautical engineer, but...as I understand it, it's to do with the variable pitch propellers." He demonstrated with his hands, "Once they've slowed the engines and touched down on the landing strip, they...rotate the angle of the propeller blades to direct the thrust _forward_ , then apply _more power_ to assist with deceleration, while applying the brakes."

Sam gave him a sideways look, "Right."  
Then another, "...Been moonlighting as an auxiliary pilot, Sir?"  
He gave a modest sort of moue. "Reading." He said simply.

tbc...

* * *

 **A/N:** You can find a 1926 recording of Fred and Adele singing _'Hang On To Me'_ with George Gershwin at the piano, on YouTube. It's very sweet. If they'd ever sang it together at a more mature age, as I've imagined here, I think it would've been even sweeter.

And with diligent searching of YouTube, you can find all the other performers singing or playing the tunes mentioned. I particularly recommend the post-War performance 'Medley of Songs - Ray McKinley & Johnny Desmond' because they are having such fun!


	6. Chapter 6

**Disclaimer:** _Foyle's War_ was created by Anthony Horowitz, and the characters of Foyle and Samantha jointly created by Mr. Horowitz, Mr. Michael Kitchen and Ms. Honeysuckle Weeks. No infringement is intended.

FW 1944: Let's Face the Music

* * *

Chapter 6

They set off for Hastings in the darkness, making good time on the deserted roads by the light of a quarter moon and the Wolseley's hooded headlamps. During the drive they recalled and discussed the performances they'd seen - all except Fred and Adele Astaire's dance duet. Sam claimed her favourite had been _'You'd Be So Nice to Come Home To'_ by Dinah Shore, casting her boss a wishful eye, and Foyle admitted to particularly enjoying _'Tuxedo Junction'_ \- though mostly the quiet parts. _Several times_ Sam thanked him enthusiastically for including her in the invitation from Lt.-Col. Bamberger.

Arriving at the Station, they left the car in the back lot, as Foyle said he'd prefer to walk on such a fine evening. A little wistful now, Sam was preparing to say goodnight to him there at the gate, when Mr. Foyle announced he'd see her to her door - because of the late hour. He switched on the electric torch he'd taken from the glove box.

Instantly buoyed up at the chance to extend her time with him on what had been such a special evening, Sam bubbled, " _Thank-you, Sir! It's **very** kind of you_."

They set off down the lane and out into the street, Foyle directing the beam of the torch on the ground in front of them. In the privacy afforded by darkness, Sam dared to approach the sensitive topic,  
"...Tell me more about Miss Astaire, Sir. She was quite popular, was she?"  
Foyle raised his eyebrows affably, quite unwary,  
"Well, you've no idea what a _sensation_ she was, Sam. ...Let's see... Who would you name as the _most popular_ singers and filmstars today?"  
She grinned at the notion of discussing this with her usually serious-minded boss,  
"Oh, Bing Crosby...Anne Shelton...Vera Lynn..."  
She saw him nod as if to say, _'Go on...'  
_ " _Um_ , the Andrews Sisters...Perry Como...Jo Stafford...Frank Sinatra...Nat King Cole."  
He aimed a smile at her, tucking his free hand into a trouser pocket,  
"Well, roll them all into _one_ and that should give you a sense of it. _Everyone_... was in love with her, men _and_ women. Over four hundred performances of that first play in the West End. People would return to see it a dozen times.  
"Sought after, welcomed everywhere. Wireless programmes, adverts. -Whatever _product_ Adele endorsed sold out in every shop."  
With a short huff of amusement he recalled,  
"... _Rosalind_...only ever used _Pond's_ after she saw Adele's magazine ad."  
Sam gave him a warm smile, so pleased to hear him finally mention his late wife by name.  
"...Would buy her recordings as soon as they came out-." He stopped, cautious in acknowledging the memory, "She'd...sing along with them...or without, around the house." He cleared his throat gruffly, focused on the ground.  
"And you'd...sing _together_ , sometimes...?"  
Surprised, his head went up and he glanced at her, then bit the inside corner of his lip. His voice came softly out of the darkness, "...Yeah. Long time ago, now."  
Recalling his words that first time she'd accompanied him to visit his wife's grave, Sam said quietly, "Well...not _very_...?"  
"Nno. But, _em_..." In the dim light she could see his quick gesture to the bridge of his nose again. A little teary on his behalf, Sam gently asked,  
"...Brought back fond memories? Meeting Miss Astaire tonight...?" She left off the 'Sir.'

Walking along together, through the familiar yet changing streets of Hastings, in the velvet darkness, with this brave, remarkable, compassionate young woman, Foyle found himself not only able, but unexpectedly willing to share with Sam _why_ seeing Adele Astaire had been so moving for him. He realised, despite their differences of work status and age, that he trusted Sam completely, knew that she was with him one hundred percent. Even in this.  
And so he took a breath and plunged into his explanation, his voice light and thin,  
"...In a _good_ marriage...you've got those...shared memories, that make up your _whole life_ together. But... I _llost_ the One I'd shared them with. Few years pass and...just don't recall them as easily. Forget things that...meant a lot. **And then**...something rare like _this evening_ happens, and - it's a _gift_. Seeing Adele...reopened _whole chapters..._ "  
He was silent a few paces before concluding,  
"Don't know if you can understand, Sam. _You're_...still looking forward to those moments, still, _em_..." His voice trailed off.  
Sam screwed up her courage and murmured,  
"I _do_ understand. At least, I _believe_ I do. And... _I'd_ like to think...," she glanced at him, "... _this_ will be _one of those_...shared memories."  
Foyle frowned carefully, not daring to take her meaning,  
"It...was a _very_ good evening. Pleased you enjoyed it."  
"A _wonderful_ evening-." Again, she left off the 'Sir.'

Continuing on in thoughtful silence, they heard the rising noise of an approaching motor, then ahead saw the dim glow of hooded headlamps. A car sped towards them faster than was wise in the blackout, and Foyle sensed the driver hadn't seen them.  
"...Look out." He said with quiet firmness and took hold of Sam's upper arm to guide her farther off the road until they were up against a brick façade.  
He flashed the beam of his masked torch quickly over the windscreen. The driver swerved away and the car passed by them at a safe distance.  
"That was _close_!" Sam exhaled, and looked up at him, relieved and grateful.

They walked on side by side. After several paces Foyle realised with a start that under the threat of the brief incident they had joined hands, her left in his right. He wasn't sure how it had happened - had he taken _her_ hand, or had she taken _his_?  
Didn't seem right to let go - _now_.  
In fact, it felt _right_...to hold on to her. It was... _lovely_. Her small fingers were warm and soft in his, with a sort of delicate strength, and...he knew he didn't _want_ to let go. Not just yet. Besides, he rationalized, there could be more danger ahead, on such a black night.

Before, they'd each dwelt separately in their own thoughts. _Now_ there was a current of communication flowing between them - her varying pressure on his palm, his occasional shift to hold onto her more securely, a rhythm, a slight swing as they moved.  
On a patch of uneven pavement, damaged in the collapse of a bombed building, Foyle lifted their hands for better balance, tightening his hold to help her over the rubble.  
And at that moment Sam decided this was undoubtedly her only chance to find out what that lovely old song had meant to him. Tottering more than strictly necessary, she clasped his hand firmly and began humming the tune to _'Hang On To Me.'_ She sensed him stiffen, yet when they were safely walking on level ground again she carefully, softly remarked,  
"...Such a jolly old song. ...But not to _you_? Not any more...?"

She watched him, a near silhouette in the darkness. He didn't answer, working his jaw, studying the path lit by the torchlight, but neither did he let go of her hand.  
She persevered, "You know, ...this is the first time you've...told me _anything_ about your past. _I'd_ like to think, well, that you might-."  
"Sam."  
Dropping her chin in defeat, she resigned herself to the inevitable reprimand, that the subject was 'off limits.'  
Instead he asked, "...Why?"  
Her brow furrowed at the question as she turned sharply to look at him, _'Why did I care to know about his past? Why did I care to know what the song had meant to him? Why did I... **care**?'_

She halted on the spot, then moved across the pavement to brace herself against the wall of an intact, solid, substantial building, pulling his arm with her. Eventually the rest of him followed, and he stood before her, apparently willing to hear her answer.  
"Because I...I care for you. _Very_ much. I care for you more than anyone else I know."  
" _Hmh_." He tilted his head back minutely, as if she'd just told him the time.  
"Right." But the word came out gruff, and she saw a gleam on his cheek.  
He took in a short sharp breath and said hoarsely,  
"It was our _song_. And," He chewed on his lips, "...Ssang it to her-."  
His voice broke. Sam could see his jaw clenching.

For Foyle the associations were overwhelming - it had been their song almost from the beginning - an _anthem_ in the youthful optimism of a blissful new marriage, an _affirmation_ in the shared joys, triumphs and tribulations of family life and his career. And finally, on that terrifying, tragic last day of Rosalind's illness, he had sung it to her, when at last left alone by his wife's bedside, soft and low, as a _plea_ ,  
 _'...If you'll hang on to me...while I hang on to you...we'll dance into the sunshine, out of the rain...forever and a day...'  
_ And there had been that faint, barely perceptible press of her fingers on his hand that had nearly stopped his heart.  
But she hadn't been able to hold on, growing weaker by the hour, and neither had he, as the dreadful illness inexorably, unmercifully claimed her, took her from him forever.

He let out the breath, "...in hospital."

Sam let out the breath she'd been holding, too. She nodded quickly several times, a tear spilling over, unable to speak, then put her free arm around his shoulder and embraced him. He let go of her hand to wrap both arms around her, and held her close.

tbc...


	7. Chapter 7 Conclusion

**Disclaimer:** _Foyle's War_ was created by Anthony Horowitz, and the characters of Foyle and Samantha jointly created by Mr. Horowitz, Mr. Michael Kitchen and Ms. Honeysuckle Weeks. No infringement intended.

FW 1944: Let's Face the Music

* * *

Chapter 7 Conclusion

They were holding hands when they arrived at Sam's lodgings. The house was dark, the night was black and still. When their footfalls stopped, there was only a whisper of distant noise from the main road, the undertone of surf rolling in on the shingle beach, and the sound of their own breathing. They stood in the darkness, close together under a convenient leafy tree that shielded them from any prying eyes in upper windows.

The quarter moon peeked out from the clouds, its soft glimmer revealing their faces to each other. Foyle switched off the electric torch, stowed it in his jacket pocket.

Sam eyed him with an intrepid expression,  
"Well, I'd been waiting _ages_ for you to ask me out, you know."

The dutiful objection and denial wouldn't come. He bit his lower lip and remained silent, watching her with a cautious regard.

"And now you- you _have_. Haven't you?" Her brows bent in hope as she squeezed his fingers.

One corner of his mouth lifted slightly, "...Seems I _have_."

Nervously, she swung their joined hands a little,  
"But you feel it's...not _proper_ for us to...step out."

He gave a slight, frustrated sigh, shifted a foot and turned to face her, "I _know_ it's not ...proper, Sam." Yet his thumb stroked the back of her hand, a humble petition.

"Then we won't. Not as long as I'm your driver." She said simply.

That surprised him, and after a troubled pause he asked,  
"...Nnot going to _resign_ , are you?" forcing a humorous quirk of an eyebrow.

"Certainly not. There's a war on."

"Quite right." Still uncertain of her intention.

"Then, until _Victory_..." She clarified.

"...We'll, _um_ , _not_ be...?" He asked, doubtful.

" _Not_ be stepping out. That's right." She gave a little nod of finality.

Foyle looked away, twisting his mouth to one side in dissatisfaction, and let go of her hand. Sam felt the loss, and compressed her lips in worry.  
A moment later he turned back to her with the glow of an idea in his eyes,  
"There may be _trouble_ ahead..."

Sam was a bit confused. "The _War_? It can't go on for _ever_..."

He cocked his head, looking up at the sky,  
"But while there's _moonlight_..., and _music_..., and, _em_..."  
He took a step forward, picking up her right hand,  
"Llet's **face** the _music_..."  
He slipped his right arm around her back, gazing at her entranced expression.  
Still puzzling, Sam lifted her left hand to his broad shoulder, then her eyes went wide as the penny dropped, and she beamed,  
"But you've forgotten ' _and **love** and **romance** …!_"

Pulling back and arching an eyebrow at her, he smiled knowingly, " _I_ don't think so."  
Then he claimed her lips in a gentle kiss, and they swayed together, to the music of an imaginary orchestra under the spell of the moonlight.

~The End~


End file.
